


Adventures in Babysitting

by leiascully



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is having a bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Babysitting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bendingwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingwind/gifts).



> Timeline: Mid-Iron Man 2, references to Thor.  
> A/N: For bendingwind, who was having a bad day  
> Disclaimer: _Iron Man_ , _Thor_ , _The Avengers_ and all related characters are property of Marvel Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Phil Coulson is having a bad day.

To be precise, which is something that Phil enjoys and appreciates, and of which there is little enough in this universe, Phil Coulson is having a bad month. First, there was Tony Stark, which was abysmal enough. The only thing that made life bearable during Phil's term of babysitting America's foremost manchild genius was that Tony Stark had more channels of horrible reality television than anyone had ever heard of. Phil had gotten caught up on his backlog of paperwork the first week.

Despite appearances, and despite frequent misconceptions on his earliest quarterly reports, Phil's not cut out for desk work. He gets restless. He might be the kind of agent who can slip into a room so quietly that it takes even Nick Fury a minute or two to notice him, but that doesn't mean that he ought to be sequestered in the office. Or in this case, in a house with Tony Stark. The only difference between the amount of security at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and the amount at Stark's house is that Jarvis' range is a lot bigger. And the bathrooms are better. He'll give Stark that much. 

The coffee is definitely better.

But no amount of coffee can change the fact that he's stuck out here in California on a babysitting detail, which is nearly as bad as a desk job. It's a coffee table job. After the paperwork, Phil is left with the remote and nothing else to occupy his day. He's locked out of the lab. In theory, he could talk Jarvis into overriding the protocols. Jarvis is a great deal more loyal than any AI he's ever met, unfortunately, and Phil's a little afraid of the consequences if he fails. So he sits and twiddles his thumbs. He actually learns how to twiddle his thumbs. 

In short, Phil is bored. He is mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly bored, and no amount of _Supernanny_ can cure his ennui. 

He wakes up every day in a perfectly lovely guestroom. Stark's taste, or at least Ms. Potts' taste, is impeccable. It's nice for the first few days. It's irritating thereafter. His clothes are always perfectly folded, which is normal, but they're folded in slightly the wrong way, which is enough to make Phil's teeth grind. He takes a run around the estate, with its gorgeous vistas, which, he stoically tells himself, don't even compare to the grey concrete walls in the S.H.I.E.L.D. gym. He showers and shaves in his beautiful room where the towels are folded just this side of incorrectly. He dresses himself carefully. At least this time, he got to bring his nice suits, now that Stark has some inkling of what it is S.H.I.E.L.D. actually does and how important they are. He has a cup of Stark's excellent coffee - two cups, if he's feeling particularly truculent - and a poached egg or two. If Ms. Potts isn't taking care of every aspect of Stark's business, they usually have a nice chat. 

Ms. Potts is the highlight of his stay, really. It's a pity that she's elsewhere approximately 98% of the time, cleaning up Stark's messes. She handles it with a great deal more grace than Phil thinks anyone should be expected to, honestly, and she still manages to sound genuinely interested in his life. He lies about his personal life when she asks, mostly out of habit, but cellists have bows, so at least it approaches the truth.

The worst day starts out like any other. Phil wakes up in his fantastic room, paces out a reasonable five miles, and does his level best to use all the hot water in the mansion - an impossible feat, he's discovered. He discovers, after shaving, that he missed a spot under his chin and has to go through the whole ritual again. His fucking underwear has been folded this week, and folded weirdly, so that it doesn't even look like his. His favorite tie has a crease in it. The sponge for his shoe polish is missing. He suspects Stark tells the housekeeper to rearrange his things on purpose. The only coffee in the entire kitchen is flavored, and his English muffin doesn't split when he levers the pieces apart with his fork. Instead, it explodes into a shower of crumbs. Phil Coulson has crumbs in his eyebrows.

His mood grows more foul by the minute. Ms. Potts is away, but she's sent him an apologetic email about Stark reprogramming the DVR to record only the Teletubbies and monster truck rallies and how she's talking Jarvis into fixing it. People keep calling the house and Jarvis has stopped answering; some command of Stark's, surely, but it leaves Phil picking up the phone, because otherwise Stark yells about delicate calibrations and might as well do something up there, Coulson. This is what he's been reduced to. Ten years of training, and he's doing the job that goddamn voicemail can't do. He's out of the loop. He might as well be off the grid, for all anybody cares. 

He'd break something, but he's pretty sure that most of Stark's toys are worth at least a year's pay. Aside from that, he's does his best to move through the world with a modicum of civilization, unlike some he could name currently rampaging through the basement and possibly taking down a supporting wall.

It's the biggest relief of his life to date when he realizes that this time, the ringing phone is in his jacket pocket. Fury tells him, without preamble or greeting, that events have occured and Phil's babysitting detail is being cut short. There are more important things afoot in the Land of Enchantment, ancient artifacts falling from the sky. This is the moment they've been gearing up for, or one of them. Phil is necessary to the task. Phil is glad he's not face to face with Fury - he thinks he'd plant one on his boss, which is hardly advisable given that Fury, most of the time, looks like he's just looking for an excuse to disembowel someone. Stark, of course, doesn't give half a damn that he's leaving, but at least Coulson gets the dubious satisfaction of having told him, and having talked Jarvis into letting him into the lab in the first place.

Coulson steps outside, suitcase in hand, breathing the free air. He's going to New Mexico. He's out in the field again where he belongs. He sees the car coming a long way off - Stark's driveway is designed for optimum visibility. He walks down the steps, hefting his bag, as the car pulls to a stop. He puts his bag in the trunk and walks back to the driver's door. The tinted window rolls down slowly and suddenly, Phil's day has taken an abrupt turn for the much, much, incredibly much better, mission or no mission. 

"Get in," Barton says, peering out of the Acura. He gives Phil a look over the rims of his sunglasses. "You look like hell."

"You're not driving," Phil says automatically.

"Get in," Barton says, jerking his head at the passenger seat. "I'm your goddamn knight in shining armor here. The princess doesn't get to drive the chariot."

"You'll be singing a different song in a couple of hours," Phil tells him. 

"Whatever," Barton says, leaning back in the driver's seat and looking much too pleased with himself. "I brought you doughnuts, Princess."

Phil Coulson's got powdered sugar on the lapels of his Dolce suit, but somehow, everything's going just fine.


End file.
